Behind the Window
by MartyrsMistress
Summary: Reign AU/Oneshot The Queen Mother of France has never felt so alone. She watched the one she loved the most love more than her, whilst her cell is the only companion she'd have until his otherwise word.


It was true to say that the Queen Mother of France, Catherine de Medici, had never felt so alone than what she did now. A court in which she had once ruled now considered her a ghost, banished from the hallways of French Court to her chambers, for however long her son saw fit. Her son, her golden boy, her King, the one who had made her a mother and the one who at one point, relied on her for everything, now considered her a speck of dirt upon his life, a rat whom had been locked away from his life, his rule, his court and his heart.

The Queen mother limply lolloped over towards the window, navy and silver satin gown trailing behind her, wrinkling skin paler than what it once had been, her mouth set into a thin frown as she observed the courtyard from her rooms. Catherine's hand reached out to the window, as if trying to touch the beings she saw rush around before her. But she didn't feel life, their warmth and their contentment. No, all she felt was the coldness of the window, chilled from the autumnal breeze, dead and inanimate, far from the warm life she had been deprived of for years.

But it was equally as true to say that the Queen Mother of France had brought this punishment upon herself. The story had started just after the assault of the Queen of Scots, and sure, the Queen Mother had been loyal then. But she had fallen under the spell of the catalyst of the assault that ripped away any remaining innocence the -at the time, barely even sixteen year old- Queen of France and Scots held.

The imperial marriage didn't break with the Queen's innocence, however. Granted, it did turn the once fierce, feisty and fearless young Scot into something of a trembling little dove, but only for a time. As the King of France and Scots became something of a protective animal towards the one he loved and cherished the most, he and his Queen healed from the trauma and came out stronger for it. Neither straying for the sins of the flesh, neither allowing the other to be manipulated by any courtier, Prince of the blood or lustful Lady be damned.

The sin of the flesh was what cast a spell upon the once great, feared, mighty Catherine de Medici. Lord Narciesse had quite the bite in bed, and she became obsessed with his touch and his kiss. _Nobody was allowed to have it, but her, _she thought bitterly, it was because of that, the nail hit the coffin and the lock slid into place upon her bedchamber.

Her bitterness was melted when she heard a loud giggle echoing from the courtyard. She turned from her observance of the flooring to the window again. The sight ached her sore, weeping heart.

In all his grandeur, the King of France rushed around with his two sons in towe. In mint green silk and white satin, long blonde curls flew backwards as his long legs took long leaps, playing around with his sons in a way that his father never did with him or Charles or little Henri or Hercules. Only Bash, but Sebastian de Portiers never had it held against him.

Catherine de Medici breathed a half smile, looking at the little Baron of Velay as he giggled with his father and brother. In a tiny suit of blue satin and silver buckles, the bastard born boy enjoyed his father's company, laughing as he was chased by the tall, handsome young King, with his heir in his arms.

Catherine's heart -which had been filled with something close to guilt, but not so far away from satisfaction, when she looked at the bastard boy- filled with deep remorse and sadness as she took in the one year old Dauphin of France and Duke of Ambien and Rothsay. Dark golden doe eyed and long black curled, the little boy rested in his father's arms, giggling and squealing around with the fun. The blonde may be the King's eldest son, but the ravenette was undoubtedly the more important of the two.

For the little Dauphin was not the son of the Lady Lola, no, this child was the offspring of Queen Mary and King Francis. Their eldest child together_, the first of many_, court had whispered loud enough for her to hear through the door. One year old, conceived the night the Queen mother was locked away in her chambers for her crimes, content and healthy and happy, the subject of court's deepest affections. The Dauphin James Henri Edward of Valois-Angouleme-Stuart was a remarkable little boy, who had settled the fates of nations with his conception and birth.

_He had just reached his first birthday, just a few short weeks ago_, Catherine silently admitted to herself, hazel eyes sliding closed, her head resting upon the window, small black tiara clinking softly with contact against the glass. _And yet I have yet to meet my grandson._

But the two and a half year old child was a different story, Catherine could admit, conceived with sadness and pity, anything unlike the conception of the Crown Prince._ Yet I have taken from him what cannot and will not be reclaimed._

It was such a tragic story, really. With Louis of Conde's sights set firmly upon the French throne, a coup with England was organised. It was due to the quick thinking of the Queen that the King got to keep his throne, but it was the actions of the Queen Mother who had shaken the King's personal world.

Disgusted with the knowledge of his mother sleeping with the man who had lit the match for his wife's sexual assault, Francis had already punished her for benefiting -_basically rewarding_, he had spat- the man who had broken his wife's world for a time and almost ended their marriage. He had done so with Lola when she was besotted with Stephane, the same with Claude when she was seducing and being seduced by the Frenchman. But even he, in his worst rage about the Narciesse issue, hadn't gone as far as Catherine had.

Fuelled by jealousy after Stephane Narciesse had ended their affair and started courtship of the Lady Lola, the mother of the King's bastard, Catherine's next action hadn't been expected. But maybe it should have. She did the only thing she could think to do, and that ended up with the little girl's body being put in a coffin, the nails being hammered down into the wood.

The screams of the Lady Lola as she died a hideous, gruesome death put a burning man's to shame. The blood, the bile, the desperate gasps for air was horrendous and damn near traumatising to hear and watch. Bloodier than that of the long dead Count Vincent, more painful than that of the farmer Severin, who had been set alight by the Queen after his assault of her.

Already in Francis' bad books for her plot to get his wife and son kidnapped by radicals at sword point, whom she had tried to frame the long since nullified Prince of Conde -and his brother, the Navarrian King Antoine- the murder of Lola Flemming had been the last straw for the King of France. Too dangerous for banishment, he locked his mother in her rooms under constant supervision. That had been before his second son was conceived, and the boy was now a year old. All that time, Catherine de Medici had been alone, without the contact of another human. Not even a servent, for her food was placed in a conjoining room, her baths were in a second and her laundry was taken as she bathed alone.

It was the worst sort of punishment for the Medici Queen. Death would have been preferable to abandonment. And that was wholly the point.

The squeals of laughter grew into more excitement. Catherine looked up at the sound, and saw the Queen of France and Scotland make her way down the hill towards her husband, son and step son.

Jean Philippe took off towards his newly christened 'maman', stopping just short of her. Catherine frowned, not understanding this action, for the boy usually jumped up into her arms. The reason for this soon became obvious when Francis and James came closer and placed their hands upon a growing abdomen.

A sad smile graced the Queen Mother's face. The girl was around seven months gone, a sizeable bump underneath the scarlet and crimson brocade gown she wore. And yet, she had no idea of the conception of yet another of her grandchildren.

But maybe this time could be different, she noted, watching the family of four -soon to be five- take their place upon a picnic blanket to eat their luncheon and play games and caress the young matriarch's growing abdomen. She had been too preoccupied for Jean, hadn't been allowed contact with James. But this baby, boy or girl, this baby would be different. Perhaps she wouldn't be the grieving, solitude ghost to this child. Perhaps she could be Grandmere Catherine from the start.


End file.
